What's Left Of Us
by Psyche17
Summary: After Lancelot's death on Badon Hill, Gawain sets off to rescue Lancelot's betrothed who has been kidnapped. GawainOC and GalahadOC.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, I'm honestly writing this on a whim because my fingers have been itching to write something. That being said, this may turn out to be a bunch of rambling, but if you don't mind reading drivel, I don't mind writing it. It's probably going to diverge quite a bit from the movie with different characters (no slash, despite the first OC being introduced is male) and most of the fic will probably take place outside of Britain. And, umm, yeah, that's about it.

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"_Lancelot!" called out the young Seanna as she scrambled through the crowd on her little feet, "Lancelot!" _

_A wide-eyed boy with dark, curly locks and a sullen face peered down at her from on top of his horse. Seanna reached up and opened her hand to him, revealing a wooden amulet carved into the shape of a bear. She forced a sad smile to spread across her lips as he accepted the gift, but her smile was not returned. Lancelot, her friend and betrothed, was leaving on that day to serve the Roman Empire as a knight, a fate he had neither chosen nor deserved._

"_How long shall we be gone?" he asked one of the Roman soldiers._

"_Fifteen years," replied the soldier coarsely, "Not counting the months it will take to get to your post."_

_What post? Where were they taking him? Would it be dangerous? Of course, it would be. Seanna felt tears burning in her eyes out of fear for Lancelot. Though they were only children, she knew their souls would always be tied together. _

"_Do not be afraid," said Lancelot bravely, "I will return."_

_A tear rolled down Seanna's cheek as her eyes trailed after Lancelot. The brave boy followed reluctantly after the soldiers and into his fifteen years of servitude. Wherever he went, wherever they took him, he would return to her. He promised._

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Thick, weathered fingers wrapped themselves around yet another mug of ale. They belonged to the hands of a warrior, calloused from the hilt of a sword and the curve of a bow and strong enough to rip life from mortal flesh. At this moment, however, they lifted the mug of ale to the warrior's lips, allowing the alcohol to slide onto his tongue.

He sat alone in the tavern for there was no one to keep him company. What was left of his fellow warriors, those who had not died in battle, had all dispersed now that they had fulfilled their service to Rome and there were no more wars to fight. Galahad had departed back to Sarmatia after he had received word of his mother's death. He would journey to his old village to bury her and then return to Britain, which had become more of a home to him than that other distant land. It seemed only yesterday that they had lost Dagonet, Lancelot, and Tristan during the Saxon invasion, though it had actually been several months. Very little was left, therefore, of the legendary Sarmatian Knights of Hadrian's Wall. The warrior sighed at this and took another sip of ale.

As he set the mug back down on the table, his blue eyes caught glance of a dark, slender man maneuvering his way through the tavern. He wore a cloak with the hood pulled over his head and zigzagged between the tables, studying each person he encountered with a scrutinizing eye. The man stopped abruptly at the warrior's table and narrowed his eyes.

"You're Sarmatian, aren't you?" he asked bluntly, snapping his fingers to get the warrior's attention.

"I am," replied the warrior warily, somewhat put off by the man's rude manner of addressing him.

The strange man studied him for another moment and let out a dejected sigh. "Oh but you're not the right one!" he cried, throwing his hands up in the air, "Goddess have mercy! I have been wandering from Roman post to Roman post searching for the Sarmatian knight named Lancelot. Well, this was my last hope and it isn't even under Roman control anymore."

"Wait a minute," interrupted the warrior, "Did you say Lancelot?"

The man stopped his fretting momentarily and stared at the warrior once again. "You knew this Lancelot, didn't you?" he asked perceptively, "Yes, of course you did, but there is bad news here, very bad news. Go on and tell me. Get it over with, though I could probably guess."

The warrior, dizzied and confused by this man's odd mannerisms, answered as steadily as he could manage, "Lancelot was my friend and brother in arms---"

"Was! Cruel fate! I knew it!"

"---but I am sorry to report he died in battle not but five months past."

"Despicable man! Well, I suppose I have come all this way for nothing."

"I assure you," said the warrior, offended by the man's disregard of his deceased friend, "he cares for the situation no more than you do."

"I would trade places with him in an instant," moaned the stranger, "Life holds no joy for me and now I find I have been squandering the most recent chapter of it in search of a knight dead for five months now. But don't worry for me! It's but another curse on a life full of curses."

"Well," replied the warrior, still utterly confused, "What business did you have with him? And, for that matter, who are you exactly?"

"I am Brome," the man replied with a ceremonious bow, "a poor, failed fortune teller, who cannot even tell the future, fallen to the depravity of messenger at your service, Sir Gawain."

"You know my name?"

"Your intelligence did not earn you your honor, I gather," said Brome with a sigh, "I am a seer and know all, including your name. I have the intelligence of ten wise men and I have nothing but depression and desolation to show for it. Oh, to be dumb and happy!"

"You tell fortunes?" asked Gawain, still completely unsure of what to make of this man.

"Of course not!" spat Brome, "You are a dumb brute, aren't you? I said before that I am cursed with bad luck and have fallen to the lowly profession of messenger. I am _supposed _to be a fortune teller. In fact, I come from a long line of the most renowned soothsayers in all the land. Unfortunately, my only gift is hindsight. To put it plainly for you, I can only read a person's past."

"But shouldn't a person already know their past?" Gawain inquired, furrowing his eyebrows.

Brome let out an exasperated sigh and pulled out a scroll from his cloak. He then cleared his throat and began to read in the mock enthusiasm of a bartering merchant, "Why ask about your future? Your past determines your present! Ask for the answers to your past and you will find the keys to your future!"  
Gawain stared at Brome blankly. "But what could you tell me about my past that I don't already know for myself?" he contended.

Brome frowned. "Obviously," he replied contemptuously, "The business hasn't really been working out for me, hence my current occupation of carrying messages all across the Roman Empire for knights who can't stay alive to receive them!"

"You have a message for Lancelot, then?" asked Gawain, trying hard to ignore Brome's insensitivity towards Lancelot's death.

"Are you really this slow or do you simply enjoy tormenting me?" Brome raved, "Yes! I have a message for Lancelot!"

Gawain stood up to his full height and stared down threateningly at the feeble Brome who laughed nervously, sensing that the knight was losing patience with him. "Perhaps," suggested Brome more cautiously, "I could leave the message with your commander---Arthur, isn't it?"

"Come," ordered Gawain gruffly, "I will take you to him."

Gawain strode through the fort with Brome scrambling after him until they reached the hall of the round table where Arthur sat stooped over a pile of scrolls. The half-Roman, half-Briton commander looked up from his work at the entrance of the two men. "Yes?" he asked with anticipation.

"This man named Brome wishes to speak with you," Gawain announced, "He brings with him a message for Lancelot."

Arthur lifted his eyebrows in surprise at the mention of Lancelot's name. He had mourned greatly for the death of his best friend and now made a priority out of anything concerning he who had been his most trusted knight. "Please," said Arthur eagerly to Brome, "Come forward with the message. I was Lancelot's commander for fifteen years until his death in the battle at Badon Hill. Any dispatches intended for him are safe in my hands."

"Yes, you've always been a man of your word," muttered Brome as he advanced towards where Arthur was seated, "One of those self-righteous types. By the goddess, you have the most unscandalous past I've ever read."

"Brome," explained Gawain, "is a fortune teller or a hindsight teller or some such thing."

"Right," replied Arthur indifferently, figuring it wasn't worth the effort to try to make sense of what Gawain had said. Brome pulled a scroll from his cloak and handed it to Arthur who immediately perused its contents with great interest. Brome stood by his side, sighing with impatience at Arthur's apparently slow reading pace.

"Well," said Arthur finally, scratching his head, "This is very interesting."

"What?" inquired Gawain curiously, "What does it say?"

"It appears Lancelot was betrothed to a girl back in Sarmatia," Arthur reported, "They were to be married upon his return, but because neither his family nor his village was ever informed where Lancelot had been stationed, they have not yet learned of his fate. The correspondence was written by the girl's mother. Regrettably, the girl has been kidnapped by the Navari tribe---do you know of them, Gawain?"

"All Sarmatians do," Gawain replied bitterly, "They are the only tribe to show resistance to our pact with Rome. They hide up in the mountains with their sons, refusing to let them be enslaved. You can't really blame them, but it causes trouble for the rest of us. Not to mention, they are known to take women from other tribes as wives for their sons."

"I suspect that is exactly what happened to this woman of Lancelot's," said Arthur gravely, "The message relates that the Navari tribe has taken her and she will be married to the leader's second born son unless Lancelot returns to make good on his promise to marry her himself. The tribe will honor their engagement up until her twenty-second birthday at which time she will be handed over to the second born son against her will."

"What are we to do?" asked Gawain with concern, "There is no hope for her now that Lancelot is gone."

"Not necessarily," replied Arthur thoughtfully, "The girl's mother wrote that they will know Lancelot by a wooden amulet carved into the shape of a bear."

"Do you know the amulet of which they speak?" Gawain inquired.

"As a matter of fact," said Arthur exultantly, "I think I do."

The commander rose from his seat and headed off to Lancelot's old quarters followed closely behind by Gawain and Brome. Once inside, Arthur strode over to a chest by the window and dug through it until he pulled out the bear shaped carving with a string attached at the end. Arthur held out the amulet for his companions to see while he formulated a plan in his head.

"Gawain," he addressed his knight at last, "You will take the amulet and rescue the girl from her captors."

"You want me to pose as Lancelot?" Gawain asked in disbelief. He wasn't exactly a close likeness.

"They have no means of recognizing you," Arthur assured him, "and no reason to doubt you if you have the amulet. Bring the girl and her mother back to Britain where they will be safe. It is what Lancelot would have wanted."

Gawain could not argue with this nor could he deny honoring the wishes of his deceased friend. Besides, many years had passed since he had laid eyes on the vast, open lands of Sarmatia. It would be a most welcome sight. "I will do it," said Gawain firmly.

Arthur smiled and patted Gawain on the back. "I am glad of this," he said sincerely, "You are doing the right thing, I believe."

"Idealistic rantings!" scoffed Brome, who amazingly had managed to remain silent up until this point, "Who honestly cares who the little village girl marries?"

"Our friend!" answered Gawain resolutely, "Lancelot cared. That's good enough for me."

"You received this message from the girl's mother, did you not?" Arthur asked Brome, "And you met her?"

"Vile woman," replied Brome with a shudder, "A blubbering, hysterical mess."

Arthur and Gawain sighed, exchanging looks of aggravation. "Well," said Arthur to Brome, "Since you are acquainted with her and the village, I will ask that you accompany Gawain on his journey."

"What?" interjected Gawain immediately in protest, "Arthur, that really isn't necessary. I can go on my own." The last thing he wanted was to travel all the way across the breadth of the Roman Empire with this exasperating man.

"I agree with the long-haired one on this issue," added Brome, nodding his head in affirmation.

"Nonsense," replied Arthur, "It makes much more sense for both of you to go together. Now, I'll leave you two to making the necessary arrangements. May God go with you."

Arthur placed the amulet in Gawain's hand and quickly exited the quarters, pleased with the decided course of action. Gawain turned and eyed Brome who grimaced at him in return. This would be a long journey.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much Remember to Feel Real and cleopatra32003 for your comments! I'm glad you like it so far!

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A cold, harsh wind stung against Galahad's face as he wrapped his cloak tighter around his shoulders and urged his horse forward. He wanted to reach the other side of the mountain by nightfall, but the sun was dropping quickly from the sky dragging the temperature down with it. His knuckles had turned white with numbness as his frozen hands firmly gripped his horse's reigns.

On the grasslands, Sarmatia exhibited a mild, benign climate, but its mountain tops were no kinder than those found in Britain. Galahad had quickly realized that the knights' and his memory of their homeland had been nothing more than an idolization. In reality, Sarmatia was no different than any other part of the world and now that his mother was dead and buried, there was nothing left to make it his home. His fellow Sarmatian knights back in Britain were his family now more than ever, and he was eager to return to them. He missed Bors, Vanora, and their little bastards running about and causing trouble. He missed Arthur's good sense and leadership that served as beacons for the young knight who was still trying to find his own way. And, of course, he missed his friendship with Gawain, not to mention their knife throwing contests. If only Dagonet, Tristan, and Lancelot were still among them. Their absence at Hadrian's Wall would make Galahad's homecoming bittersweet.

Snow had begun to fall now from the gray sky and Galahad cursed himself inwardly for not having waited until morning to begin his uphill trek. His horse whinnied and shook its head in fright.

"Shhh," Galahad cooed, stroking the horse's mane, "It's just snow."

Unfortunately, it was not just the snow that was making the horse nervous. The crescendo of hooves in the distance alerted Galahad that he would not be alone for long. A moment later, a gang of men on horseback fully clad in war gear sprang forth through the mist, charging down the path towards him with swords drawn.

"You there!" the leader of the group shouted, "Halt!"

Galahad intended to do no such thing. He reared his horse around and fled down the path in the opposite direction, hoping to lose them on the winding trail. The plan did not work as he had expected, however, and he could hear his pursuers advancing closer behind him as he continued to race on down the path without looking back. Tree branches scraped across his body as he diverged from the path and headed into the forest, once again hoping to lose them. His flight into the trees was to no avail, however, as they continued to gain on him. The whiz of an arrow ripping through the air was not enough warning for the young knight who was unable to dodge it and let out a guttural cry as the bolt embedded itself in his shoulder.

His body wrenched from the pain, sliding from the saddle and crashing to the forest floor, but the resolute knight still had fight left in him. Galahad scrambled to his feet and drew his sword as the gang of warriors rode over and created a perimeter around him. Galahad ran his eyes along each of their faces, glaring and scowling with flared nostrils to prove he was not intimidated. There were eight all together, each of them clearly formidable.

One of the combatants, a cocky novice, dismounted his horse with a pretentious grin and swaggered towards where Galahad stood waiting. Galahad eyed his opponent with scrutiny, noting his superior height and muscle build, but observing his youth and overconfidence as well. It was a familiar sight and Galahad could not help but see much of himself in this young warrior. Their swords clashed and, although Galahad was the more experienced fighter, his wounded shoulder inhibited him from wielding his blade in a full range of motion. Instead, his moves were more defensive, blocking his attacker's swings. Soon he had been knocked to the ground, lying prostrate on his back as his opponent raised his sword over his head to make the final blow. Galahad looked up into the blood thirsty eyes that gleamed from the gratification of violence, but he was done gratifying this enemy. He rolled quickly to the side as his opponent's blade struck the dirt ground, missing its intended target. Galahad saw his opening and seized the opportunity, slashing the blade straight across his enemy's neck in a perfect slit to the throat. The amateur warrior's eyes widened from the shock of the blow and he tumbled lifelessly to the ground.

Provoked by the outcome of the fight, the rest of the warriors, with the exception of their leader, dismounted their horses and circled Galahad with unsheathed swords and menacing glares.

"Drop your weapon!" the leader ordered Galahad from on top of his horse. He was a man of advanced age with a weathered face, but his frame was gigantic and appeared as though it were carved from stone.

"No!" Galahad shouted back in defiance, gritting his teeth and tightening his grip on the hilt of his sword.

Out of the corner of his eye, Galahad caught glance of a warrior charging at him, but he reacted too late. The warrior drove his spear into Galahad's side, piercing the flesh. Galahad yelped out in pain and fell to his knees, clutching his hand to his side, but still refused to release his sword.

"Drop your weapon, Roman!" the leader repeated louder this time.

"Roman?" uttered Galahad in puzzlement, "I'm not---"

Another of the men struck him across the back of his skull before he could finish. He raised his head back up to look the leader in the eyes. "I'm not Roman!" he screamed, his face contorted with pain.

Once again, a warrior advanced toward him to deal another blow, but this time the leader signaled him to halt. "I am Sarmatian," Galahad groaned, rubbing the back of his head.

"He's wearing Roman armor," growled another of the men.

Galahad's breathing was ragged and strained. "I served as a knight for fifteen years," he managed to wheeze out, "I am freed now."

Galahad could feel the heat of their stares radiating off of him. The leader was studying him carefully, evaluating every inch of his face. "Bring him," he commanded.

At this order, Galahad was hauled to his feet and thrown on top of a horse. Everything around him began to blur and soon he was swallowed by unconsciousness.

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Galahad had no memory of being taken down from the horse and brought into shelter. He was vaguely conscious of the fact that he was now lying on his back instead of slumped over in a saddle, but moments of even the slightest lucidity were sporadic at best and consisted only of blurred visions and faint sounds. He had no awareness of his surroundings and had fallen into a deep, restless slumber filled with torments and agitations.

In his dreams, he was plagued by sounds of horses' hooves pounding on the ground and thought himself back on the trail, racing to escape from his assailants. The image of the sword about to crash down upon him replayed in his mind over and over again. Each time, the nightmare would end just before the blade struck him and he would become dimly aware of the cold sweat running down his body. He kept hearing a voice uttering words that he could not quite make out. He thought he heard the name 'Lancelot' and wondered if this were the beginning of his journey into the afterlife where he would be rejoined with old friends. His dreams turned then to memories and images of his fellow knights lying dead on the battlefield, their souls leaping from their bodies in the form of horses galloping across the blood stained earth. Then he would once again hear the pounding of the hooves and would be catapulted back into the recurring nightmare, fleeing down the trail in a hopeless attempt to avoid imminent death.

Time no longer existed for Galahad, so he knew not how long he had remained in that unconscious state before he jolted awake in terror after the conclusion of another vivid dream. His eyes locked immediately with those of a blue-eyed girl who grasped his arm to steady him.

"Easy," she said in a soft, gentle voice, "It's alright."

Galahad stared at her breathlessly for a moment trying to orient himself. She drew herself close to him and her eyes held tears of excitement and relief. She brushed her hand against his cheek and whispered, "You came for me---just like you promised. I knew you would."

"I-I'm sorry?" Galahad stammered with a voice that was dry and raspy.

"It is I," she said with a smile, "Seanna. Did you bring the amulet?"

"Who?" asked Galahad, dizzy with confusion, "What amulet?"

"Seanna," she repeated, "Do you not recognize me? It has been a long time."

"I think," Galahad replied perplexedly, gazing at her in bewilderment, "I would remember such a face."

Seanna was a fair skinned beauty with golden hair that spilled down her back like rays of sunshine from the sky. She studied Galahad for a moment and then looked down at the floor with disappointment.

"You're eyes are blue," she mumbled under her breath.

"What?"

"Your eyes are blue, not brown," she said softly, a blush of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks. She had not been able to ascertain his eye color while he had been asleep. "I'm sorry," she continued, still clearly embarrassed, "I have mistaken you for someone else."

Galahad was completely baffled by her words that to him seemed completely incomprehensible and was, hence, rendered speechless. He was still incredibly weak from having just awoken from his state of unconsciousness. His eyes flittered around the room trying to ascertain where he was, but nothing looked familiar. He remembered he had been on the trail and was chased down by a gang of men and then---his wounds! He quickly felt along his side to discover that the laceration had been carefully stitched together and found that his shoulder was tightly bandaged as well.

"Did you do this?" he asked Seanna, referring to the tending of his wounds.

"Yes," she replied meekly, "You have been asleep nearly two days now."

"Thank you," he said sincerely to show his gratitude, "I wonder if you could also tell me where exactly I am?"

"You are in the village of the Navari tribe," she answered, "Do not worry. You are safe here."

"They are the ones who took me?---the ones from the trail?"

"Yes."

"I am afraid," said Galahad, looking down at his injuries, "I must doubt my safety after the way I have been treated thus far."

"You are Sarmatian like us, are you not?"

"Yes."

"They will cause you no more harm," Seanna assured him.

It was obvious that Galahad was not convinced, but he was too tired to argue. His head felt heavy like a boulder and the room was beginning to spin around him. Seanna, perceptive to his condition and attentive to his needs, helped him to lie back on the mat that had been placed on the floor for him. His eyes lingered after her as she went to retrieve a basin filled with water from the corner of the room. She returned quickly to his side and dipped a cloth into the cool water and dabbed it across his forehead.

"You have been fighting an infection," Seanna explained, "We must keep your fever down."

Galahad nodded his head in submission to her care. His breathing slowed and became less ragged as she continued to run the wet cloth along his face followed next by his limbs and torso. Her motions were gentle and soothing and he soon found himself comforted by her presence. For some reason, she had been able to gain his trust immediately. There was something in her eyes that told him she was honest and sincere.

"What is your name?" she asked him.

"Galahad," he replied.

The injured knight could feel his eyelids getting heavy, but he resisted falling back into sleep that he knew would only bring visions of trepidation and terror. Instead, he remained focused on Seanna whose face held calmness and serenity. She appeared unaware of his gaze as she continued to wring out the cloth and dip it once again in the cool water. He fought to stay awake, but the power of exhaustion was quickly overcoming him.

"Sleep now, Galahad," whispered Seanna, "I will watch over you."

She brushed her fingers over his eyes, inducing them to close, and not more than a second later, Galahad had drifted back into a deep slumber. Seanna sighed sadly as she watched the knight sleep. He looked very much as she imagined Lancelot, her betrothed, would look after those many years with the handsome face and dark curly hair, except that Galahad's eyes were sky blue instead of chocolate brown. If only he _had_ been Lancelot come to claim her hand. She had been so sure that he was. Now, however, her hopes had been dampened. Her twenty-second birthday was only two weeks away, and time was running out.


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to everyone who has commented so far! Sorry I haven't been replying to reviews, but I think the email alerts are still not working.

lizzy- The story will involve both Gawain and Galahad, so the first chapter was about Gawain leaving Britain towards Sarmatia and the second was about Galahad starting his return to Britain from Sarmatia. Hope that clears everything up!

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"---and I don't know how you can stand to sit on a horse for so long," Brome was complaining, "Are we stopping to rest soon? When will we lunch? Merciful goddess, I don't think I can bear this saddle any longer! I'm chafing! My buttox is in agony!"

"Oh, I can think of a bigger pain in the ass," Gawain muttered under his breath.

Gawain and Brome had crossed the channel from Britain and were presently journeying through the forests of what was now the outer edge of the Roman Empire. The trip probably could not be described thus far as a pleasant one. Brome had to be the single worst traveling companion Gawain had ever encountered. Not only did he speak relentlessly, but he whined! His voice dripped with melodrama, as words did not simply roll off his tongue, but instead reluctantly dragged themselves from his lips as if to throw themselves from a cliff and fall painfully onto Gawain's ears.

"Cruel fates, what have I done to offend thee!" Brome cried up at the sky, "I cannot go on!"

"Bloody hell, man," said an aggravated Gawain, "Do you ever shut up?"

"If you led such a miserable life as I, you would complain too," Brome reviled, "In fact, I doubt you could endure it as valorously as I."

"Perhaps your life seems miserable because _you _are so miserable," suggested Gawain, "I don't see what's so bad about it."

"Oh, what do you know!" Brome scoffed, "I was destined for greatness, destined to be the most renowned prophet in all the land, but here I am at eight and twenty years of age, having amounted to nothing and riding around with an uneducated barbarian to go save his dead friend's fiancée. Not that I expect pity from the likes of you, but any simpleton could see the grave misfortune that is my life."

"Eight and twenty?" repeated Gawain, "Aren't you a little young for a prophet anyway?"

Brome frowned. "Aren't you a little masculine to be wearing your hair like that?" he quipped.

Gawain rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. What was wrong with his hair? "I've always worn it this way," said Gawain defensively.

"Yes," replied Brome, "I know."

"Really? What else do you know about my past?" Gawain asked out of pure curiosity.

Brome smirked mischievously. "Your mother's name was Ida," he said, "She used to sing to you about fish in such a horrendous voice that you are still considerably afraid of the water. Honestly, who sings about fish in the first place? Despite all this, however, she was a fine woman and you loved her. Hence, you have always had the intention to return to Sarmatia to find a woman just like dear old mommy to wed, which perhaps explains this errand we're on. You're going to try to win this woman's heart, aren't you, you sly devil?"

Blood rushed to Gawain's face not only because this man knew the most intimate details of his history, but also because of the hasty conclusions he had drawn and their subsequent insinuations. Brome may have been right about certain details of his past, but the thought of pursuing the woman who was to have been Lancelot's had never once even crossed his mind. "You don't know what you're talking about," Gawain contended grudgingly, "I am doing this only to honor an old friendship---something I doubt you would understand."

"Perhaps not, perhaps not," said Brome, waving him off, "But I was right about the rest of it, wasn't I?"

"Yes, you were right," replied Gawain, "about my mother's name being Ida."

Brome snickered with self-satisfaction. "People are always interested in themselves---always want you to tell them what they already know," he reproved, "You're right, people should already know their own past, but that doesn't stop them from asking about it as you have just done. They want to hear about themselves---that is, as long as what they hear is all sunshine and smiles." Brome let out a dejected sigh and continued, "Just once I'd like to hear someone ask me about _my _past. Nobody understands me. Nobody cares. Woe to anyone who suffers as I do."

But Gawain had stopped listening. He had become suddenly aware of a rustling in the forest behind them and the sound of approaching footsteps followed closely behind by galloping hooves. A second later, the blurred outline of a girl sprang forth from the trees and bounded over to where Gawain and Brome sat on their horses. Before Gawain knew what had happened, she had jumped on the back of his saddle and kicked his horse into a canter.

"Run! Go!" she shouted, and soon they were racing off down the trail with Brome trying hopelessly to keep up. Not too keen on having his horse hijacked, Gawain instinctively pulled on the reigns and reared the horse around. It was then that he noticed the Roman cavalry charging towards them.

"Oh," he gulped, "Bloody hell."

"You there!" shouted one of the Romans, "Stay where you are!"

Gawain felt the girl behind him clutching to his arm with her little hand. He jerked his head around and was about to eject her from the saddle with a few choice words, but her wide, almond-shaped eyes gazing up at him pleadingly stifled him.

"They're going to kill me," she whispered, her voice trembling with fear.

Gawain let out a sigh of resignation and turned back to see the Roman soldiers stampeding towards them. "I am Petronius Marinus of the Roman legion," called out the commander, "Hand over the girl."

The girl's grip tightened around Gawain's arm and for some reason, he could not help but feel sympathy for her. "I am a Sarmatian Knight under the command of Arthur Castus of Britain," Gawain called back to Petronius; then, thinking quickly, he continued, "I would like nothing better than to obey your order, but I'm afraid the girl is holding me hostage."

"She is?" remarked Brome in confusion.

"I am?" the girl blurted out, fortunately not loud enough for the others to hear.

Gawain cleared his throat, noticing the skeptical looks he was receiving from the Roman soldiers. "Yes," he stammered, "You cannot see it, but she is holding a dagger to my back. One wrong move and she will plunge it directly between my shoulder blades."

"That's right!" the girl called out in affirmation, playing along with what Gawain had said, "So you all just turn around and go back where you came from or else I'll kill this man."

"Oh no, please," said Gawain, doing a rather poor imitation of concern, "I don't want to die."

Petronius Marinus stared at them in disbelief for a moment, but then his face turned to irritation. "You are all under arrest by the authority of the Emperor of Rome," he announced in a no-nonsense tone, motioning a few of his soldiers to come forward.

"Petronius Marinus, swindler and profiteer," reprimanded Brome, shaking his head in disappointment, "You have not learned your lesson, have you?"

"Who are you?" asked Petronius in befuddlement.

"Brome, talented past-teller at your service," he replied with a slight bow of his head, "but more importantly, I am someone who knows exactly what happened the last time you made a hasty arrest."

Petronius narrowed his eyes and studied him suspiciously. "Nice try," he said at last, feigning complete confidence, "but you know not of what you speak."

"Of course, of course. After all, how could I?" Brome remarked casually, "But it would be a shame if Marcus Octavius, your superior officer, had to yet again make a special trip to your post to clean up another mess."

Petronius was beginning to become unnerved. "The girl is a thief," he protested, "Marcus Octavius would---"

"Marcus Octavius has already given us orders," interrupted Gawain, falling into queue with Brome, "and we will take the girl into our custody."

"I thought she was holding you hostage?" spoke up one of the soldiers with a doubting eye.

"Oh, right," said Gawain and in a swift movement, pulled the girl in front of him in the saddle and held his sword to her throat, "I think we have that under control now."

"Hey!" she cried, squirming in his hold.

"Shh," he whispered so that only she could hear, "Just trust me."

"You---" said Petronius warily, "---will take her to Marcus Octavius?"

"I will take her to Marcus Octavius," Gawain confirmed.

"And the stolen item in question…?" Petronius persisted with uncertainty.

"Yes, yes," assured Gawain, "I will take care of it."

Petronius gave Gawain a scrutinizing look, still hesitant and unsure of trusting these strangers, but the fear of a second offense against Marcus Octavius left him with no other choice. He turned back authoritatively to his soldiers and said, "Come. Our business here is concluded."

Gawain nodded respectively to Petronius as he and the rest of his Roman cavalry retreated back down the path and disappeared into the distance.

"Ahem!" came the choked voice of the girl under his sword.

"Oh!" Gawain uttered apologetically, realizing he still had her by the throat, "I'm sorry. Here, let me help you."

Gawain assisted her down off his horse and gently returned her to the ground. It was his first chance to get a good look at her. She was short and plucky, but beautiful in her own way, with brown hair that was tied in a messy bundle at the top of her head. She smiled brightly, looking up at him with grateful eyes. "I owe my life to you, sir," she said, "Thank you."

"Not at all," replied Gawain, still soaking up her smile. He stared at her for a moment more, but then shook himself back to reality. "Well," he said with a slight nod of the head, "Farewell, then. Be safe, and try not to provoke anymore Roman officers."

With that he nudged his horse forward and he and Brome began to once again make their way down the trail, but the girl was not quite yet ready to leave their company. "Wait!" she called after them, scrambling to keep up with their pace, "Where are you going? I will accompany you. I know this forest better than anyone."

Gawain halted and turned back to her. "That's quite alright," he replied, "We have no need of a guide." He already had to put up with a manically depressed soothsayer; the last thing he needed was the distraction of a woman.

"But you saved my life," she insisted, "It is a matter of honor that I do what I can for you in return. I have lived in this forest all my life. I could be of great use to you."

Gawain fixed his eyes on her, contemplating her words. "What is your name?" he asked finally.

"Melon," she answered.

"_Melon?_" he repeated, not sure he had heard her correctly.

"Her father was a drunkard and her mother was a nitwit," chided Brome with a roll of his eyes, "What do you expect?"

"Hey!" Melon snapped back, "That's not very nice!"

"I don't make your past; I just read it," said Brome unsympathetically, "And believe me, I'd rather not even do that much. Of course, if it weren't for my brilliant insights concerning that cavalry leader earlier, you might be dead already, but I can neither read the future nor do I receive any gratitude for reading the past. Such is the depraved life I live!"

Melon stared blankly at him in bewilderment. "You'll have to excuse Brome," Gawain interjected contritely, "He is---well, he's quite inexplicable, actually."

"Only because you lack the vocabulary," Brome muttered bitterly under his breath.

"Anyways," continued Gawain, "I suppose it wouldn't matter too much if we added one more to our company."

Melon's face lit up. "Oh, thank you, sir!" she exclaimed, "You will not be sorry. I will make good on my word and anything I can do to repay you for your service to me today, consider it done. Perhaps I may even be able to return the favor and save _your_ life at some point."

Gawain smirked with amusement at the scrawny girl that stood before him. Somehow he found it extremely unlikely that she would be saving his life any time soon.

"You can _not _be serious," remarked Brome contemptuously, "One does not need my wisdom and perception to see that this girl is trouble. The Romans are after her and it will not take them long to realize we did not hand her over to Marcus Octavius. Any intentions on her part to come along with us are for her own sake and protection, not ours."

"You tell people's pasts, is that it?" Melon asked.

"I do," replied Brome with a dejected sigh.

"Then stop making conjectures about what I intend to do in the future," she reviled.

Brome, completely flustered and at a loss of words, let his mouth drop open. Gawain chuckled. "If you can keep that up," he said to Melon, "I'll beg you to come along."

Melon smiled at this, and the party of two travelers from thenceforth became three.


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, I hope this chapter isn't too terribly dull. I realized that I'm already 4 chapters into this and there has only been one throat slicing and absolutely no snogging. I will have to change that in future chapters. :P

Saxongirl345- Thanks so much! I'm glad you are enjoying it thus far!

lizzy- Thank you! I'm glad it made you laugh. I had fun writing it.

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It was early morning when Seanna crept into Galahad's room, hoping not to wake him. She knelt down beside where the bare chested man lay and gazed with concern at his face that was, as usual, twisted with distress and discomfort. Galahad never looked peaceful when he slept nor could he stay long in one position, but tossed and turned and shifted in every direction. Sometimes he would cry out in the middle of a nightmare until Seanna would be forced to press her hands to his shoulders and speak comforting words until he was once again lulled into silent slumber. Seanna could not help but wonder what tormented him so. What did he dream of? What were these demons that came to haunt him every night?

At first she had welcomed the assignment of looking after the wounded knight because it relieved her from the company of the other disgusting, leering men of the Navari tribe who had taken her from her home. Instead of spending her time amongst them in their main gathering hall, she had an excuse to be elsewhere tending to other responsibilities. In particular, it freed her from the attentions of the leader's son Uris who she would be forced to marry in no more than two weeks if Lancelot did not come for her before then. Before Galahad had regained consciousness, Seanna had even allowed herself the hope of thinking that she was escaping Uris' company to look after her betrothed one, but of course that notion had proven itself false. Yet, to her surprise, even after she had realized her mistake in believing Galahad to be Lancelot, her interest in the injured man did not wane. Instead, she admitted to herself shamefully that her curiosity was only intensifying for this handsome stranger. She found herself intrigued by him and waiting anxiously for the next time he would awaken.

She supposed her curiosity spawned from the grateful, appreciative way he had treated her when he had finally awoken the night before. He had trusted her and submitted to her in a way that touched her deeply because all the warriors she had ever known had treated her with arrogance and imperiousness. Over the past few weeks of living with the Navari tribe, she had forgotten that not all men were lewd and lascivious. The older men of the village were not so bad and she rather liked the Navaris' leader, but the younger men were starved for available women and it showed. Fortunately Ben Sana, the leader of the tribe, had forbidden any man, including his son Uris, to lay a hand on her until her marital future was determined. But that didn't stop their wandering eyes from making a whore of her in their wild imaginations.

But for some reason, she felt that Galahad was different. His eyes held purity of intentions and he was depending on her care. Seanna liked to be needed perhaps because she had always felt so useless in the past. She could do nothing but stand and watch as the Romans returned each year to collect more sons and set fire to the villages when the Navaris once again defied their pact. Now here she was held prisoner in their fortress, but she could not do anything about that either. Yet, at the same time, she was now tending to a brave Sarmatian knight and _that _was doing something of consequence. If Lancelot were ever injured and alone in a strange place, she hoped that someone would do the same for him. Perhaps that was why she felt such a strong responsibility for Galahad.

Seanna awoke from her reverie when she felt the knight's blue eyes gazing up at her and quickly shook her thoughts from her mind, as though afraid that he could hear them. "Hello," she said weakly, disarmed by his unremitting stare.

"Hello," Galahad replied, still not releasing her from his gaze.

"Hello," boomed a voice from the entryway. The large frame of Ben Sana stood tall in front of them, his face as hard as stone. Galahad's blood rushed to his face with rage at the recognition of this man who was responsible for his capture. He quickly felt at his waist for his sword, but his belt and effects had been removed with the rest of his armor.

"You will not need your weapons here," said Ben Sana, stepping further into the room, "You are Sarmatian and one of us. You will not be harmed."

"I am not one of you!" Galahad spat with contempt.

Ben Sana's composure did not change. "Seanna," he said calmly, "Please leave the room."

The girl did not hesitate, but quickly sprang to her feet and scuttled out of the quarters, gently closing the door behind her as she left. Galahad watched her go and then immediately turned his attention back to Ben Sana who had taken a seat in the chair beside him. Ben Sana was an old man, older than Galahad had realized. His eyes held weariness from a lifetime of painful sights and his forehead held a long, vertical scar that ran perpendicular against the wrinkles of his brow. His appearance denoted that he was a man to be respected and a force to be reckoned with.

"Do you know where you are, soldier?" Ben Sana asked with the nonchalance of one who is tired of keeping up pretenses.

"I know that I am somewhere in the mountains," replied Galahad bitterly, "in a village of the Navari tribe."

"This is _my _village," said the old man, surprisingly without any real self-importance, "My name is Ben Sana and I am the leader of the Navari tribe."

Galahad shrugged indifferently and averted his eyes to the floor. Ben Sana laughed to himself in amusement. "You are not impressed," he noted.

"Should I be?" asked Galahad defiantly.

"Probably not," Ben Sana admitted with a sly smile, "but I am impressed with you, young warrior. You fought bravely in the forest. I should have known immediately that you were not Roman. It has been many years since I have witnessed such courage." He paused, "Now, I suppose you are wondering why I spared you."

"Not really," said Galahad coldly, "You said yourself it was because I am Sarmatian."

Ben Sana smiled. "Well," he replied, not at all offended by Galahad's tone, "Since you already know so much, allow me to ask some questions of my own."

He waited for a moment, but when he did not receive a reply, Ben Sana continued, "What is your name?"

"Galahad," the young knight answered curtly.

"Galahad," repeated Ben Sana with a respectful nod of his head, "Where did you learn to fight like that?"

Galahad eyed the weathered man that sat before him with apprehension. "Why do you wish to know? What is your interest in me?" he asked skeptically, "What is the point of these questions?"

"I am dying," answered Ben Sana suddenly.

"Excuse me?" responded a shocked Galahad. It had not been the reply he had expected.

"Is the death of an old man so surprising? I'm dying. You're dying. We're all dying," Ben Sana said casually, "I just happen to be doing it faster is all."

"What does this have to do with me?" Galahad asked suspiciously.

"I would give anything to have my youth back," Ben Sana reminisced, his eyes filled with sadness and longing, "but I feel that you, young warrior, are the closest I will ever get to it."

For the life of him, Galahad could not figure this man out. "I---remind you of when you were young?" he guessed.

"No," said Ben Sana wryly, "I was much more handsome."

Galahad rolled his eyes. Despite his better convictions, he was beginning to warm to this man. Ben Sana was not pretentious or self-important like most of the commanders he had known. The only leadership Galahad had ever truly respected was Arthur's, but he imagined he could learn to admire this Ben Sana.

"Tell me, who is the girl who has been caring for me?" Galahad asked, diverting slightly from the topic at hand.

"Ah, so he does not know everything after all," Ben Sana teased, "Her name is Seanna, but do not get any ideas because she is engaged to my son, Uris."

Galahad shrugged his shoulders as if it did not matter to him. "She has been kind to me," he remarked.

"She is a kind person," said Ben Sana, "Any other questions?"

Galahad thought for a moment and finally forced himself to swallow his pride. "What is to become of me?" he asked.

Ben Sana smiled in understanding. "Well, my young warrior," he said sympathetically, "It appears you picked a poor time for traveling through the mountains as a snowstorm has blocked all passageways down to the valley. Until the snow clears from the trail, you are here."

Galahad sighed with affliction at his misfortune; yet, he simultaneously wondered what would have been his fate had he not been brought to this village. "In the meantime," continued Ben Sana, "I wish to know more about you, soldier. Tomorrow you will come to visit me and we shall resume this conversation. But first, tonight we are holding a banquet for my son's thirty-fifth birthday. I expect you to be in attendance."

"If only I hadn't a million other things to do to bide my time…" replied Galahad sarcastically in a half-hearted jest.

Ben Sana patted him warmly on the back. "You and I will get along quite well, I think," he mused.

With that, Ben Sana rose from his chair and exited the room, leaving behind him a rather conflicted Galahad. The young knight was simply baffled by this encounter. To his frustration, he found it incredibly difficult to hate this leader of the Navaris. He knew much of the Navari tribe, though he had never before met any of its members. He remembered from his childhood that many Sarmatian villages were burned in punishment for the Navari sons who refused to serve in the Roman military and the bitterness and contempt that resulted from it. After meeting Ben Sana, however, he realized there must be much he did not know.

Seanna returned to the room presently with fresh bandages in hand. She shut the door quietly and looked down at where Galahad sat on the mat on the floor. "Hello," she said with a hesitant smile.

"Hello," replied Galahad.

"We keep saying that," she remarked with a light laugh that broke the tension in the room.

"Yes," agreed Galahad with an amused smile, "We do."

"I---should change your bandages," she said awkwardly and once again knelt down beside him. Her expert fingers immediately began unwrapping the bandaging around his bared torso. Galahad simply sat there patiently, hypnotized as he watched her work.

"Are you feeling better?" she asked warmly, trying to make conversation.

"Me? Oh, yes, I'm fine," he stammered, "I've suffered worse than this."

Seanna seemed to be impressed. "You've fought in many battles?" she asked.

"Yes," Galahad replied solemnly, "I served Rome as a knight for fifteen years."

"The man to whom I am betrothed served Rome as well," she confided, "Though I do not know if he was given the title of knight."

Galahad was confused. "I thought the Navaris refused to serve Rome?" he asked.

"They do," replied Seanna, "My fiancée is not of the Navari."

"You are not engaged to the son of Ben Sana?" Galahad asked, still perplexed.

Seanna's face flushed with embarrassment. "Not of my own will," she answered meekly, "If my fiancée, a man of my own tribe, does not come for me in the next two weeks before my twenty-second birthday, then I will be forced to marry Uris."

"If you are not one of the Navari, then how did you come to be here?" Galahad inquired.

"It happened several weeks ago," she explained with a hint of anguish barely detectable in her emotionless tone, "I was taken in the night by a pack of the younger sons of this village, including Uris. Ben Sana is a fair man and a strong leader, but he is growing older and can no longer deny his son of his many wants as he used to. The Navari tribe has never been able to convince their fellow Sarmatian women to live in such seclusion up in the mountains, so they changed their tactics from persuasion to brute force. You will find there are few women who are here by choice."

"Seanna, I'm so sorry," said Galahad sympathetically, angry that fellow Sarmatians could engage in such abuse of power that was more fit for their Roman enemies.

Seanna shrugged off his apology. "Thanks to Ben Sana, I have not been maltreated. Even so, I have nothing to fear," she said confidently, "My fiancée will come for me."

"Listen to me," Galahad said firmly, "You do not know me well, yet, but I like to think that I am an honorable man and I cannot sit back watching this injustice done when there is something I could do about it. Ben Sana promised me that after the snow clears, I will be free to go. When that happens, I swear I will take you with me."

"They will never allow it," Seanna protested, "and I won't have you risking yourself on my account."

"It is the least I could do after you have tended to my wounds so diligently," he insisted, "Tell me, do you want to marry this Uris?"

"No," Seanna replied without hesitation, "It would be my greatest shame."

"Then you will escape with me once the trail is safe to be traveled," Galahad concluded.

Seanna sighed and smiled sweetly. "I thank you, sir," she replied in dismissal, "but it is really unnecessary. Like I said, my fiancée will come for me."

"But---" Galahad was about to protest.

"He will," Seanna interrupted sternly, "I will not allow myself or anyone else to think otherwise."


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks again to everyone who reviewed! I really appreciate it. I think the alert system is working again, so I promise I'll respond this time.

Okay, this chapter is a little all over the place, but it's also setting stuff up for future chapters, so bear with me...

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"'Pick up the pace,' you say! 'We must hurry,' you say!" Brome mimicked Gawain, "Well, we wouldn't be in such a rush if you didn't stop to help every helpless forest nymph named for seedy vegetation! Now it's only a matter of time before the Romans will be after us and, you know I'm not one to complain, but this trip is getting worse all the time!"

"Does he ever shut up?" murmured Melon who sat behind Gawain in his saddle, hugging to the back of his sculptured frame.

Gawain shrugged. "You learn to block it out," he replied. The knight could not help but be acutely aware of her slender arms holding tightly to his waist and her warm breath on the back of his neck as she spoke.

"---and what's worse," continued Brome, "is that you don't even listen to me! Believe me, there'll come a day when you will wish you had heeded my warnings. Of course, what do I know? I can't tell the bloody future! Oh, it always comes down to that, doesn't it? How much easier my life would be if---"

"Why _were _the Romans after you, anyway?" asked Gawain out of sheer curiosity.

"I might have---" Melon replied hesitantly, "---provoked them a little."

"Really?" Gawain retorted sarcastically, "I hadn't noticed."

"Well, they had no business being here," she explained in her own defense, "Traipsing through the forest like they own the place."

"They do own it," said Gawain, furrowing his brow in consternation, "This is the Roman Empire."

"Not if I have anything to do with it," she replied haughtily, "Believe me, Sir Gawain (that's your name, isn't it?), the Roman Empire won't be around forever and if everyone would just stop _letting _them rule the world, their fall would come much more rapidly."

"Look who thinks she can read the future," retorted a begrudging Brome under his breath.

"So stealing from a Roman cavalry will do what exactly to overthrow the Empire?" Gawain asked skeptically, still unsure of what she had hoped to accomplish.

"Well, I suppose I could have done the predictable thing and wreaked carnage on their pompous asses," she said matter-of-factly, "But, honestly, do I look all that threatening? Plus, I'm extremely anti-violence."

"Anti-violence? I think you're in the wrong century," scoffed Brome, "Besides, you little hypocrite, your parents were---"

"I believe," Melon interrupted quickly, "that the world would be a better place if conflicts were resolved in peaceful manners. The Roman's own religion teaches such a philosophy, but they fail to live up to it."

"And theft constitutes a peaceful resolution?" disputed an unconvinced Gawain.

"Stealing and killing are two very different things," she contended firmly.

"I don't know about that," shrugged Gawain, "To kill someone you have only to steal their life."

"Ah!" countered Melon, the excitement growing in her voice, "But I stole something so much better!"

"Oh really?" Gawain replied, still doubtful, "What did you take?"

"This," she said proudly, pulling out a scroll and handing it to him.

Gawain took the parchment in his hand and studied it carefully. "This is a map," he observed.

"That is a map," she confirmed.

"A map of what?" he asked.

Melon looked at him perplexedly. "Well, I don't know," she replied with a shrug, "Something."

"Oh, well that's just brilliant!" Brome cried, throwing his arms up in exasperation, "That is bloody fantastic! You put all our lives in danger for some map that probably shows where all the best monasteries are located or some such Roman Christian nonsense. Well, as much as I would love to travel the countryside to the tune of bald men chanting, I think I will skip the pilgrimage for now, thank you! Why am I always cursed with such idiotic company?"

"If the map were so insignificant," countered Melon, "Then our lives wouldn't be in such imminent peril, would they?"

"Imminent peril?" Brome exclaimed frantically, "Imminent peril? Did I say imminent peril? Please tell me we are not in _imminent peril_."

"That map is the entire reason they are here in the first place," explained Melon, "They're looking for something, that's for sure. I may not know what it is, but I know it will be missed. Now don't you think that's better than going on a killing spree?"

"Not if they catch us," muttered Gawain.

"Imminent peril," Brome mumbled nervously to himself, "This never would have happened if I could predict the future. I never would have gone to Britain---never would have gone on this stinking venture---"

"Do you know what your problem is?" Melon interjected, "You're too caught up in the past and, let's face it, history is always depressing. Either you have a terrible past that continues to haunt you or you have a lovely past that causes you to spend your present wishing you could have it back. You'll never find happiness by always looking backwards."

Brome stared at her with blank, unaffected eyes. "Do you know what your problem is?" he asked.

"What's that?"

"You have a very stupid name."

Melon laughed, not at all offended by his remark. "You can call me Mel if you like," she offered warmly, "Believe me, I'm not completely unaware of the unusualness of being named for a fruit."

"There are worse names," Gawain said sympathetically, "You could have been named Asparagus."

Melon giggled. "I suppose you are right," she replied, "But there is an explanation behind my name. It's a silly story, but an explanation nonetheless."

"A silly story indeed," remarked Brome, since he of course knew it already, "Sentimental and cliché."

"Well let's hear it," urged Gawain.

"Alright, but you must promise not to laugh," Melon relented, "You see, my birth came very late---at least a couple weeks later than it was supposed to. My mother---"

"The nitwit," interjected Brome.

"---said that her stomach had grown so big that it looked like she was carrying a melon under her dress. Anyways, she finally went into labor and out came her melon. I guess the name just kind of stuck."

Gawain chortled and Melon swatted him across the back of his head. "You promised you wouldn't laugh!" she chided.

"Actually he didn't promise," corrected Brome, "I would laugh myself if I wasn't already occupied with mourning for the dignity of humanity."

"I'm sorry," said Gawain, stifling himself, "It was a lovely story, really."

"Yeah, yeah," Melon replied in dismissal, "So where does the name Gawain come from?"

"It was my grandfather's," he answered.

"Not that it would mean anything to you," said Brome proudly, "but I was named for the most renowned oracle in all of Gaul. He was the one who predicted the---"

"Gawain is a good, strong name," commented Melon, "I think it would be an honor to be named for an ancestor."

"Thank you," replied Gawain.

"---so what it comes down to is that I will never live up to the man for whom I was named," Brome moaned, "I am nothing but a disappointment, a blemish on the face of all the great seers who have come before me. I will endure my lot in life, though, as I always have. There's nothing I can do about it, after all. I'm a pitiful wretch."

There was presently an awkward silence as the conversation dwindled into cessation. Brome continued his sulking and sighing as Gawain and Melon once again became keenly aware of the close proximity in which sharing the same saddle put them. Melon bit her lip anxiously, hesitant to break the silence.

"So where are you two headed, anyway?" she finally inquired, deciding on a change of subject, "I did promise to be your guide, after all."

"Sarmatia," Gawain replied.

"Sir Gawain here is going to rescue a damsel in distress," Brome explained less than enthusiastically, "and finally end his long, pathetic term of bachelorhood."

"Is that so?" Melon asked, nudging the knight playfully.

"It's just a favor for an old friend," Gawain quickly corrected, "Nothing romantic. I've never even met her."

"You'll have to be more convincing than that if you're going to pose as her fiancée," Brome warned, "I don't know much about these things, but I do know that it helps if you at least show interest in the woman. Now if I had been born a fortune teller like I was supposed to, the woman would be lining the streets. They would---"

"You're really on a quest to save a woman's life?" asked Melon, clearly impressed.

"It's really nothing," muttered Gawain, who for reasons he could not explain was not comfortable discussing his potential romantic affairs in front of this new female acquaintance, "Like I said, it's for an old friend."

"Well I'm not one to pry," said Melon with a shrug, sensing his reluctance to speak on the subject, "I've always been very private about my relationships, myself."

"There's really nothing to tell," Gawain insisted, "Although, I do agree with you about privacy. For instance, it would be none of my business if you were currently---attached to someone---"

"Oh, I'm not!" Melon jumped in, "I haven't been for awhile actually."

"Oh, me neither," replied Gawain a little too eagerly, "I mean---it's not that I couldn't be---I could. I just---"

"Haven't found the right girl yet?" prompted Melon, finishing his sentence for him.

"Yes," he replied, "Exactly."

"I know what you mean," she said, "Except with the right _man _of course."

"Gods have mercy on me," Brome groaned, "You two are sickening."

--------------------

The sun had almost finished setting when three travelers came to a clearing in the forest where, to the ever-exhausted Brome's relief, Gawain decided they would camp for the night. Gawain kindly offered to help Melon down from the horse, his strong hands embracing her waist and, once she was safely on the ground, remaining there a moment longer than was necessary. Their eyes met, but the two saddle companions quickly averted their glances in embarrassment.

The three travelers then separated and proceeded to search for twigs and fallen tree branches with which to build their campfire. Melon sauntered lightheartedly between the trees with a bundle of sticks in her arms when a set of slender fingers snaked around her wrist and pulled her behind a tree. Her sight came into focus to find Brome's mean eyes burning down onto her face.

"I know your secret," he hissed, "What you're not telling Gawain---about where you come from."

"Then why don't you tell him?" Melon challenged defiantly.

"I want that map," Brome snarled, "All you have to do is hand it over and I'll keep my mouth shut about---"

"What do you want with it?" she asked suspiciously, "Of what use is it to you?"

"I'm going to give it back to the Romans and avoid _imminent peril_," Brome snapped, "Well, sell it back to them would be more accurate. If it's as important as you say it is, I may get a hefty price for it."

"Actually, you know, it's kind of funny…" remarked Melon with an apologetic smile, "…I might have---exaggerated---the importance of the map. It's really quite worthless. Honestly."

Brome leaned in close with a menacing glare. "Then you should have no objections to relinquishing it," he countered.

Melon opened her mouth to respond, but a rustling in the brush and a low, deep growl seized her attention away from her blackmailer. The translucent yellow eyes of a wolf glowed in the darkness along with a set of sharp, ivory teeth bared as an indisputable threat. Brome stumbled backward in fright, too petrified to scream or run.

"Virginia!" cried Melon in delight, squatting down to the ground and opening her arms out to the stealthy predator. "Where have you been, sweetheart? I missed you!"

"What---in bloody hell---" Brome stammered, "---is THAT?"

The wolf, or rather, Virginia, trotted happily over to Melon who ran her fingers through its thick coat of fur. "Don't worry," she assured him, "He's perfectly harmless."

"He?" Brome repeated in confusion, "You named a male wolf Virginia?"

"Why not?" asked Melon innocently, "He doesn't know it's a girl's name, so he can't be offended."

"You are an incredibly sick person," Brome rebuked.

"What's going on here?" Gawain inquired, arriving late to the party.

"She named her _male _wolf Virginia," Brome replied grudgingly.

"Whoa! What the hell is that?" Gawain blurted out, suddenly noticing Melon's animal companion.

"A wolf," she answered.

"A _male _wolf," Brome corrected, "named Virginia."

"It has no tail," remarked Gawain.

"And he's paying for it with that feminine name," Brome added disapprovingly.

"He was born without a tail," Melon explained, "I found him when he was a young pup and raised him to only attack out of defense. He's completely tame, I promise."

"Just---" said Gawain warily, "---keep him at a distance."

"You don't like wolves?" asked Melon, a little disappointed.

"I don't like the prospect of having my flesh chewed off," he replied sternly.

"Oh, don't listen to him, Virginia," cooed Melon, wrapping her arms around the wolf's neck, "You'd never bite anyone, would you? No, of course you wouldn't."

"Right," said Gawain, still not completely convinced, "Well, it's getting dark. We should probably start building the fire."

"It's going to be a cold night, isn't it?" asked a pessimistic Brome, "I can't bear the cold. I suspect the cruel fates will make this the chilliest night yet---just to spite me!"

The three travelers, followed by a tame, tailless wolf, made their way back to the clearing where they built their fire to warm themselves on what did turn out to be the coldest night yet. Brome sat bitter and huddled up against a tree trunk, cursing the gods for their unrelenting malice. Virginia, sensing a hard heart in need of softening, crawled over to Brome and nestled his head in the sullen man's lap.

"Melooooon!" Brome screeched, "Help!"

"Aww!" Melon remarked sweetly, "He likes you!"

Brome gulped and replied weakly, "He's. Frightening. Me."

Melon observed the situation closely for a moment. "Don't worry," she said at last, "I doubt you have anything down there to lose."

Gawain snorted in amusement and tried to stifle his laughter.

"Oh you all think this is so funny, don't you?" Brome spat bitterly, "Don't worry about me! I have a man-eating monster lying on top of me, but don't bother yourself to lift a finger! I'll be dead by morning---"

Once again, no one was listening. Melon had curled up in a ball under the shelter of a tree and was already sleeping soundly. Gawain looked down at her small, shivering body and her fingers that were turning blue from the cold. He removed his cloak and draped it over her. She did not stir, but let out a deep, satisfied sigh. Gawain sat down beside her and, after a moment more of tolerating the raucous of Brome's complaining, surrendered himself to sleep.


	6. Chapter 6

How inconvenient it is when two people have only to uncover a coincidence of circumstance in order to solve every problem and clear up every miscommunication, but fail to see the truth of their situation hidden beneath fate's cloak. Galahad fancied Seanna from the moment he laid eyes on her, so his disappointment was considerable when he discovered she was already engaged to another. Of course, little did he or Seanna know that this "other" was his fallen brother in arms Lancelot who had died in battle only months before. How much easier things would have been if they had known.

Though her patient was recovering rapidly from his injuries, Seanna remained that day watching over Galahad. She sat in the corner with knife in hand, whittling away at a piece of wood and endeavoring desperately to ignore Galahad's constant gaze. It unnerved her, and she was not one to be easily rattled. She found herself overly self-aware. Her ability to concentrate on her work soon dwindled to the point where she had to cease her carving lest she chisel it down to the size of a wooden blade of grass from the anxious, incessant scraping motions of her knife.

"Is there a reason you keep staring at me?" she asked in annoyance, setting the carving down in her lap.

"You have great skill," remarked Galahad admiringly. He hadn't meant to cause her discomfort. In fact, he hadn't even realized he had been staring.

"If only that were true," Seanna scoffed humbly, "My talent for sculpting is average, but I do it purely for my own enjoyment, so it matters little. I like the feeling of scraping away the old to make something new."

"You are too hard on yourself," Galahad admonished, scooting over to sit beside her and taking the carving in his hands to marvel at it, "I wish I could make something like this. It's a horse, isn't it?"

"Yes," she replied, "Or at least it will be eventually. I've only just started."

"I can tell what it is already," Galahad assured her, "So that says something about your talent."

"Or about your ability to guess," countered Seanna coyly.

Galahad smirked. "You really can't take a compliment, can you?" he asked.

"I like to feel worthy of praise," she said modestly, her face reddening ever so slightly with embarrassment, "but thank you."

Galahad ran his fingers along the coarse edges of the carving, studying each groove carefully. "Will you teach me?" he asked.

"Teach you?" she repeated with uncertainty, "I don't know that I could---"

"Please," he insisted, "I have been trained to do many things with knives, but all of them involve only the art of killing, if it can be called an art at all. It would be a pleasant change to actually learn how to create something with them."

Seanna looked warily from the knife in her hand back to Galahad. She still did not trust him completely. He was practically a captive here after all, since Ben Sana would not let him leave until the passageways cleared.

Galahad sensed her insecurity immediately. "Look," he argued, "If I was going to hurt you, I would have just snatched the dagger myself instead of asking for it."

This seemed reasonable enough, though the thought that he could take her life in the ease of an instant was a bit disconcerting. Seanna handed over the knife cautiously to Galahad, who took it from her gently as a sign of his passivity.

"You are very good at killing?" she found herself suddenly asking.  
Galahad shrugged. "Better at it than my enemies, at least," he replied guardedly, "Or else I'd be dead, wouldn't I?"

"You've seen many battles?" she persisted, though a dark shadow had clouded over the knight's face.

"I've done more than see them," he replied curtly.

"Forgive my insensitivity," she said quickly, sensing his reluctance to speak on the subject, "I did not mean to press you. I was just curious since---well, since the man I am supposed to marry was also taken into the Roman military. I know so little about it, always fearing the worst for him."

"Where was he stationed?" Galahad asked.

"I don't know," Seanna answered, "If I did, I would have probably gone to search for him. Waiting is an awful thing, never knowing if he is alive or safe or wounded or worse if he is…" Her voice trailed off.

"I wish I could reassure you," said Galahad solemnly, "and tell you that it's not as terrible as you imagine it, but that would be a lie. We lost many men during my fifteen years of service, friends I cared deeply for."

"I'm sorry," she said quietly, "That must have been very hard for you."

"It's all just a bad memory now," he continued morosely, "Really, I was lucky. My commander is a good, just man. It is an honor to fight for him."

"Is?" she asked with a quizzical look on her face, "You still serve Rome?"

"No, we are no longer part of the Roman military. You see," Galahad explained, "I was stationed in Britain, the country from which the Romans recently withdrew themselves. To make a long story short, I, along with the other Sarmatian knights stationed there, helped our commander Arthur Castus defeat the Saxons so that Britain could be free and independent. I was required to return to Sarmatia for---family business---well, to bury my mother---but now I intend to return to Britain and continue to serve Arthur."

"I am sorry about your mother," said Seanna sympathetically, "But Britain must have been a wonderful place for you to once again leave Sarmatia to go back to it."

Galahad shrugged. "Not the country so much as the people," he replied, "They became my family. Towards the very end, there were seven of us including Arthur that were as close as blood kin. But then we lost Dagonet and Tristan and---"

The door swung open and a short, stocky middle-aged woman bumbled into the room. "My lady!" she beckoned to Seanna, "Come! We must make ready for the banquet."

"I'll be right with you, Angela," Seanna replied.

Angela nodded, shuffling back out of the room, while Seanna fixed her attention back on the carving and knife that Galahad held in his hands. "Here," she said hastily for she knew she must soon depart, "I will show you what to do."

Galahad nodded and Seanna took his hands in hers, guiding him through the correct motions of carving. "It's pretty simple, really," she explained, "Keep making small movements like this, taking off only little bits at a time. There you go. It just takes patience is all."

They were sitting very close now, Seanna leaning into the groove between Galahad's shoulder and chest to observe their work more closely. Galahad was a fast learner and soon no longer needed Seanna's help. She went to withdraw her hands, but he quickly caught them, his thumbs grazing over her knuckles in a gentle caress. He leaned in close, his hot breath on her cheek, and closed his eyes, drawing his lips closer to hers---but she turned abruptly away.

"I can't," she whispered softly.

"Because of obligations or because you do not want to?" he asked in complete seriousness.

"Because I can't," she reiterated, her voice steady and firm, "I must go."

Seanna stood promptly to her feet and walked purposely from the room, not looking back as she shut the door. Galahad sighed and turned his attention back to the carving. He sat there in silence, ruminating over what had just occurred and methodically running the blade across the small hunk of wood that was soon to take the shape of a noble black steed gracefully bowing its head. The fates were playing many tricks on this day.

A little over an hour later, Galahad rose and dressed himself cautiously so as not to irritate his tender wounds. He then exited his quarters for the first time since he had arrived and headed down to the banquet hall where what seemed to be the entire tribe had gathered to celebrate Uris' birthday. Galahad hesitated to enter at first, but Ben Sana quickly motioned for the knight to take a seat near him close to the head of the table. The vacant spot was located directly across the table from Uris, and Galahad had to squeeze himself uncomfortably between two broad-shouldered men.

"So glad you decided come," greeted Ben Sana, raising his goblet to him, "Your presence is an honor."

"I believe it was also mandatory," Galahad muttered, but Ben Sana was no longer paying him any attention. In fact, no one seemed to notice him at all, but continued on with their conversations as though he were not even there. This did not offend Galahad in the least. He was rather grateful of it, actually.

"And never forget that yours is a life considerably blessed, my friend," a man sitting further down at the table was saying to Uris, "You have seen many years of peace and soon you will be able to settle down with a beautiful wife and---"

"And we all hate you for it!" bellowed the man seated next to Uris, elbowing his friend playfully in the ribs and clamoring his goblet against the table.

"That's right," the hefty man next to Galahad added sonorously, "Meanwhile, the rest of us must look elsewhere to satisfy our needs." He made a crude gesture with his right hand.

"What's this about?" taunted Uris, his face glowing from the alcohol, "Garrund won't bend over for you anymore?"

The man beside him, who was apparently named Garrund, slammed his fist down on the table and stood up angrily. Uris laughed. "Sit down, sit down," he beseeched, "I was only kidding."

Garrund lowered himself slowly back down into his chair and muttered, "I'm not the one with something stuck up his ass."

"Anyways, Revelin," continued Uris, ignoring Garrund and turning his attention back to the man with the overworked right hand, "I'm just waiting for the day you go blind, you horny bastard."

"Bollucks! That's just an old superstition, isn't it?" asked Revelin, tittering with laughter in a futile attempt to cover up his concern, "It can't really cause blindness, can it?"

"Of course not," Garrund scoffed.

"I'm completely serious," Uris insisted, amused by his friend's distress, "Keep it up and you'll go blind."

"Yeah," Garrund snorted, "If you have it aimed at your face, maybe."

Their thought-provoking conversation was thankfully cut short by Seanna who presently entered the hall, sweeping gracefully across the room and taking her seat beside Uris who proceeded to rest his arm possessively on the back of her chair. She was a vision in a light blue silk gown that caught on all the right curves of her body. Her hair cascaded down her back with flowers woven into the waves of blond curls. Galahad swallowed hard and straightened his posture. Their eyes met for the briefest of moments, but it was not brief or well hidden enough to escape Uris' notice.

"You," he snapped, looking directly at Galahad, "You're the knight we captured in the forest, aren't you?"

"Not really captured, my lord," Seanna interjected gently, "He is free to leave when the passage down the mountain is clear."

Uris wasn't listening. "Braden, the man you killed, was a good friend of mine," he continued bitterly, "My father grows more merciful with age, apparently."

"I am sorry about your friend," said Galahad calmly, but with little feeling, "I only defended myself."

"Rome made you a knight. Your business is killing," Uris reviled, "I doubt you've ever felt remorse for it, so why should you feel any now?"

"You're wrong, I take no pleasure in it at all," Galahad replied earnestly, "but I would have rather served Rome like a man than run away and hidden in the mountains like a frightened child."

Uris' nostrils flared with anger, but Ben Sana quickly interrupted them before the dispute could get any more heated. "As always," he noted, "politics does not make good dinner conversation."

The night drawled on from there as the men became more and more intoxicated. Galahad and Seanna seemed the only two in the entire hall who retained any sort of sobriety. They stole glances at each other from across the table throughout the night, but whenever their eyes would meet, Seanna would quickly divert her attention as though she'd been caught in some disgraceful act.  
Eventually growing tired with boredom, Seanna leaned over to Uris and politely whispered in his ear, "It is growing very late, my lord. If you do not mind, I think I will retire."

"I will escort you," Uris slurred, stumbling to his feet and offering her his arm, which she took reluctantly.

Galahad watched them exit the hall and quickly excused himself from the table, trailing soundlessly after the couple as they made their way back towards Seanna's quarters. He was not sure exactly why he was following them, but in the end he was glad that he did. They had barely made it half way down the corridor when Uris pinned Seanna against the wall, reaching his hand up her skirt and sticking his tongue down her throat to muffle her screams. She struggled, trying to break free, but he overpowered her, throwing his weight against hers.

Within seconds, Galahad had charged to her rescue, pulling the drunken man off her and slugging him across the face. Uris fell to the floor unconscious before he even had a chance to consider fighting back. Galahad turned back to Seanna to find that she had slumped down to the ground, sitting with her back against the wall and her knees hugged tightly to her chest. She trembled and fought back her tears as she stared at Uris lying motionless on the floor. Galahad knelt down beside her, cupping her chin in his hand and turning her face to look at him.

"Are you alright?" he asked gently, his brow wrinkled in concern.

The tears were flooding Seanna's eyes now. "I can't do this anymore," she whimpered, "I can't. I'd sooner die than give myself to him."

Galahad pulled her to him, letting her head rest against his shoulder and wrapping his arms tightly around her. "It's all over," he whispered soothingly, "I won't let him touch you ever again."

Seanna looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes that were blue like deep pools of water. In the place of fear, they now held curiosity. Who was this man who would so readily come to her rescue? Unable to resist for another instant, Galahad leaned down and captured her lips with his. She responded at first with soft, welcoming lips, but a second more jolted her back to reality. She pulled herself away forcefully and slapped him hard across the face.

"Is that all you want?" she spat indignantly, "You're no better than the rest of them."

With that, she broke loose from Galahad's hold and stormed off to her quarters. He sat there in confusion and dismay as he watched her go, cursing himself for once again doing exactly the wrong thing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the wood carving. Rising to his feet, Galahad strode over to her quarters, silently placing the miniature horse on the ground outside the entrance, and walked away.


	7. Chapter 7

"Uuuugh! Get it off me! Get it off me!"

Brome's terrified shrieks awakened Gawain from his deep slumber which the fatigued knight could have sworn he had entered only seconds before. He groaned and forced himself to sit upright to see just what exactly was going on. His eyes came into focus on what appeared to be Brome's legs flailing up in the air while a mass of grey fur straddled itself on top of him. Melon sat off to the side, observing with great amusement as her apparently harmless wolf Virginia wiped Brome's face clean with a slobbery tongue.

"Don't just _sit _there!" screamed Brome, "Get it _off _me!"

Melon whistled and Virginia trotted over to her with a wagging tail. Incredibly, the animal really was as tame as she had said. If anything, Brome looked like the wild beast, furiously scrambling to his feet and mopping up the excess wolf-saliva with the palms of his hands.

Gawain yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "Good morning," he said.

"Morning!" greeted Melon cheerfully, "I hope you slept well?"

"Fine, fine," he assured her. By the gods, she was a lovely vision to wake up to in the morning. He noted that she had a kind of warmth and energy that drew him to her in an unusual way. Everything about Melon was ridiculous from her name to her pet wolf to her silly plot to steal from the Romans, but he found that these quirks made her all the more intriguing. She certainly was the last thing he had expected to discover on his journey to rescue Lancelot's woman.

Gawain shook these thoughts from his mind, however, as she presently walked over to him and returned the cloak with which he had covered her the night before. "It's very warm," she said, "Thank you."

"Not at all," replied Gawain, taking the cloak from her and reattaching it at his shoulders. He wanted to tell her that perhaps in the future she might accept more than just a cloak from him to keep her warm, but the thought was lost as he felt down at his sides and realized something was missing.

"My weapons," he said suddenly, "Where are my weapons?"

Melon slipped away quickly, pretending she had not heard him. "Brome!" she called over to the rather agitated man a few feet away, "Stop frightening my wolf!"

Brome had picked up a stick and was brandishing it in warning at the animal sitting in front of him calmly with its head cocked in curiosity. "Down!" he commanded, "Down, you ravenous monster! You wild, venomous beast!"

"Well," Melon remarked dryly, "It appears you have the situation well under control."

"Right, well I've always been one to handle myself with composure in moments of great tension," he admitted, concentrating too hard on the ravenous monster before him to catch the sarcasm in Melon's tone.

Melon, on the other hand, did not catch any of what Brome said at all as she was roughly spun around by a wild, venomous, and overall not very happy knight who did not take the disappearance of his weapons lightly. "My arms," he demanded, "Where are they?"

"Attached to your shoulders, of course," she replied dismissively, once again turning away from him. "Brome! Put the stick down!"

Forget intriguing. This woman was pure evil! "Very funny," Gawain reviled in frustration, tightening his grip on her arm, "Did you take my weapons?"

"You are a very sound sleeper," she reflected, "but maybe that's because you snore so loudly that you can't hear anything."

"That doesn't answer my question," he snapped, "And I don't snore!"

"Oh, but you do," she insisted, nodding her head, "Loudly."

"I wouldn't describe it as loud," interjected Brome who was still bravely warding off the beast, "Raucous or riot would be more exact."

Gawain threw his hands up in the air. "And I used to think Bors was poor company," he muttered, "Now I'm stuck with a manically depressed soothsayer and a deranged pacifist and _I have no weapons!_"

"Cheer up, Sir Gawain," said Melon lightly, "Maybe Brome will let you borrow his stick."

Gawain gritted his teeth and looked her directly in the eyes. "Where," he demanded, "Did you put my sword and daggers?"

"Don't worry," she assured him, patting him consolingly on the arm, "They are someplace safe."

Gawain's mind was spinning in fury. "I don't want them someplace safe!" he roared, "I want them here! In my belt! What the hell possessed you to take them in the first place?"

"I thought you might be tempted to use them," she replied simply, as if this would explain everything.

"Oh, believe me," he shot back, "At this moment in time, I would be very tempted to use them."

"See!" she exclaimed triumphantly, "You're proving my point exactly. You are completely incapable of resolving any conflicts without resorting to violence."

"And there's something…wrong with that?" Gawain countered in utter vexation.

"Yes," replied Melon in a tone of expertise, "The way of the soldier is a very unfulfilling lifestyle. Violence is incredibly damaging to your psyche."

"I think I can judge for myself what is and is not damaging to my psyche," he retorted.

"Very well," she said, "You just ruminate over that for awhile and we'll continue our discussion at a later date."

"Does that mean you're going to give me back my weapons?" he asked.

"Nope," she replied.

"Damn it, woman!" he shouted in exasperation.

Melon ignored his outburst and patted him cordially on the shoulder. "Come on," she coaxed, heading over towards the horses, "It will be afternoon before you know it."

"I'm not leaving without my weapons," he insisted firmly.

"Don't worry," she assured him, "We'll bring them along."

Gawain let out an antagonized sigh and reluctantly followed. "Brome," he called over to the man who in comparison now seemed to be the ideal traveling companion, "We're leaving."

Brome proceeded with caution, shuffling warily around the wolf that in reality was not so threatening, and mounted his horse with his trusty stick still in hand. Gawain climbed up in his saddle behind Melon and the three travelers were off once again down the trail. Melon turned back once and smiled to see Virginia stalking after them in the brush. Brome, of course, was less than pleased with the wolf's pursuit.

There was little talking as they rode onward through the forest. Gawain sat stiffly in the saddle, clearly still sour with Melon for stealing his weapons. Finally unable to cope with being disarmed any longer, he started rummaging through the gear and supplies attached at the sides of the horse's saddle, but it was to no avail. His sword and daggers were nowhere to be found.

"Brome, see if my weapons are inside your luggage," he pleaded desperately, suspecting Melon had perhaps hidden them with him.

"Why would they be there?" Brome asked, naturally disinclined to lift a finger to help anyone.

"Because they are not with me," Gawain replied, growing more frustrated by the second. "Melon," he added sharply, "You're sure we didn't leave them behind?"

"Now you see," she replied casually, "This is what we call separation anxiety---"

"Damn it! Will you just answer the question for once?" he cried.

"---the tension you can no longer release physically you are now forced to release verbally," she continued; then asked in overemphasized concern, "Do you have trouble trusting people, Sir Gawain?"

"I know I do," interjected Brome, though as usual no one was listening, "I suspect it's probably because my parents hated me. I was nothing but a disappointment to them. You see, I was supposed to have inherited the great talents of fortunetelling, but what do I get instead? I get---"

"I have trouble trusting people who steal from me," Gawain countered.

"And I don't trust people who are heavily armed," Melon returned.

"Need I remind you," said Gawain, "that you don't actually need to be tagging along with us? If you don't like that I carry weapons, then you could find someone else to travel with."

"I can't do that," Melon insisted, "I owe you for saving my life and I never leave debts unpaid. So whether you like it or not, you're stuck with me."

"Why don't you just give me back my weapons and we'll call it even?"

"Because I am giving you something much more important."

"Oh really? And what would that be?"

"Independence from your reliance on violence as a means to solve your problems."

"What the hell does that even mean?" asked Gawain, twisting his face in befuddlement, "And what makes you think I'm dependent on violence in the first place?"

"Have you thought about anything at all besides your weapons in the last five minutes?"

Gawain paused for a moment, thinking it over. "Of course not," said Melon victoriously, "Believe me, I know all about what serving in the Roman military does to people."

"She certainly does," Brome added in agreement, "If only you knew about---"

"I just know," interrupted Melon quickly, "that swords and knives and arrows never did anyone any good."

"Except keep me alive on the battlefield," Gawain muttered.

They spent the rest of the day traveling along on horseback, and, though he was furious with her at the moment, Gawain had to grudgingly admit that Melon certainly was useful to have around. Gawain knew his way around the forests of Britain well enough, but on the mainland, he was completely without a sense of direction. Melon, however, knew the forest trails to such an extent that they covered twice the ground that he had expected. Gawain would never give _her _the satisfaction of that little piece of information, though. Honestly, how dare she steal his weaponry and then preach to him about fighting as if she knew something of it? She had probably lived her life in some village hidden deep in the forest, sheltered from all warfare. That would at least explain her uneducated views and her complete ignorance of the necessity of violence in some---well, many---situations.

Gawain's blood boiled as these thoughts ran through his head like a stampede of wild horses. Of course, horses could not talk and that made them infinitely better company than the two unbearably irritating counterparts that currently made up his society. Perhaps this was how Tristan had felt on expeditions with him and the rest of the rowdy knights. Gods, Gawain missed the scout sometimes. Now, _he _would have been one Gawain would not have minded traveling across the Roman Empire with. At least there would have been peace and quiet---and a healthy appreciation for weapons.

Then again, this was all Lancelot's fault, really. Lancelot, who in life had had more women than seed to spread, now in death still had unresolved matters of the heart. Gawain felt guilty for putting all the blame on his deceased friend, but honestly, what had he done to deserve his current unarmed and completely annoyed state of being? When he finally reached the afterlife, Lancelot was going to pay for this.

As it turned out, all of Gawain's thinking had not been for naught, and he eventually came up with a plan for how to get his weapons back. The sun had started setting at last and the entourage of three unlikely companions stopped to make camp. As Melon began unloading supplies from Gawain's horse, the scheming knight approached her from behind and slipped a hand around her waist. He leaned in close, breathing in the scent of her hair.

"I'm sorry for my hostility earlier," he murmured, letting his hand roam across her midriff.

Her body tensed. "That's---alright---" she stammered, caught completely off-guard by this sudden intimacy.

"I've been thinking," he continued, pulling her closer against his chest, "that maybe you were right and I shouldn't rely so much on my weapons..."

He began to lightly kiss her neck and she found herself letting out a soft moan in delight. "Yes," she replied, her voice hoarse and cracked, "There are other ways to get what you want."

"Yes," he whispered, wrapping both arms around her now and letting his hands explore the curves of her body, "Many other ways." He pulled back the sleeve of her shirt, revealing the silky skin of her shoulder, which he tasted with his lips.

"For instance," she persisted, "One might use sex…"

Gawain froze suddenly in mid-seduction. Had she seen through his ploy? "I would never degrade myself to that…" he said rather unconvincingly, returning his lips to her neck.

"Well that's good," she replied huskily, "because you could be a god in bed and I still wouldn't give you your weapons back."

'_Damn it!' _Gawain cursed inwardly. Was he really that transparent? Actually he had to admit that he had secretly been yearning to hold her exactly in that manner for quite awhile. She infuriated him; this was true, but she also enkindled something in him. He hoped that wasn't transparent as well.

Melon laughed as he released her from his embrace. "That's what I thought," she said in amusement, though secretly she had hoped to have been proved wrong. After all, what was the real reason she had been so eager to accompany this knight through the forest? She supposed she did not want to know the answer to that question.

"What gave me away?" Gawain asked in consternation, considerably disappointed that his charms had failed.

Melon smirked. "Believe me," she replied, "I know when a man wants me and when he wants something else."

At least she thought she knew, but when Gawain suddenly pulled her to him and kissed her firmly on the lips, she was no longer completely certain. "I told you," she said after he had once again released her, "I'm not going to tell you where they are."

He kissed her again. "It's not going to work," she insisted.

He pulled her to him once more and captured her lips with his, this time deepening the kiss. She responded instinctively, opening her mouth and allowing him to explore it with his tongue. She wrapped her arms around his neck and let her fingers intertwine themselves in the long curls of his hair.

"I'll never give in," she whispered breathlessly.

Gawain leaned in for another taste, but was suddenly interrupted by a large crash breaking through the trees. Roman soldiers on horseback charged towards them with swords drawn. "Halt where you are!" they shouted.

Gawain looked at Melon in hopeless defeat. "I really wish you'd reconsider."


End file.
